That Knits the Raveled Sleeve of Care
by Ha-Hee Prime
Summary: Because giant transforming robots are just so darn cute when they are sleeping. I have a whole slag-ton of scenes that, of course, came into my mind while I was dropping off. I decided not to resist them any more. Just for fun. And as always, no pron.
1. Trial Run

**A/N:** These drabbles will be in my fiction universe, as I seem incapable of writing things that are not. (I love it too much.) So what you need to know is that Megatron and Prime have become reluctant bond-brothers, Elita is slowly accepting her old enemy into her family, and there's a general Ceasefire across Cybertron. I plan on posting these in some semblance of chronological order... hopefully it works out.

These are simply fuzz for fuzz's sake. But I hope that they'll be fairly decent writing, too.

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><p><strong>Trial Run<strong>

They'd stalked around each other like two caged Tetrasaurs for more breems than either mech wanted to count. But now their energon levels, sapped by a full orn of heavy battle, an antagonistic spark bond, and the effort of pulling together this ridiculous 'secret hideout,' were so low that it was only a raw testament to their strength of will that both remained upright.

But neither wanted to be first to go offline. Spark-bond or no spark-bond, it was too scary to be helpless in the company of one's worst enemy.

So they paced around the recharge berths, exchanging glares. First one, and then the other would make a show of starting the shut-down process – perhaps lowering himself tensely onto the scarred surface of the one-size-fits-all bunks – only to jump up a moment or two later, as the other mech would make some unexpected movement at the corner of his vision.

Of the two of them, Megatron seemed to be taking it worst. The big Decepticon Commander had no memory of a time when he had trusted anyone. His private quarters had duro-steel-reinforced walls, with trip-switches set to trigger an alarm if they were so much as nudged. It was the way of the Decepticons: those who failed to adequately watch their backs wound up as scrap for the recyclers. Of course he'd never, ever shared a room. To let himself be seen in such a vulnerable state had been unthinkable to him – contrary not only to Decepticon ideals, but also to the self-made barricades around his soul.

Prime, by contrast, was determinedly optimistic of his chances of survival. He was self-sacrificing to a fault, and tended to be willing to trust to others and to hope. He wasn't happy having Megatron there. The presence of his enemy made him jumpy and snappish. But he had paid too much for this detente to give up on the Decepticon now. He'd stay and prove this peace was possible, and in so doing challenge Megatron to do the same. Or – he shrugged inwardly – he'd die trying.

"I have a suggestion," offered Prime. His voice was strained; his servos whined; and heavy smoke was starting to trail greasily out of his shoulder-smokestacks. "I don't think distance is a help to us. We'll both be wondering what tricks the other one is trying to pull." (They'd shoved the recharge platforms up against opposing corners of the chamber, trying to be as far apart as possible, although still trapped in the tiny room.) "Just push that berth into the middle, here" – he pointed – "And I'll bring along the second one."

"The slag I will!" the big Decepticon replied in a hoarse growl that betrayed his growing weariness. "I've done enough trusting for one orn. I don't think I'll be going along with anything else you have to say for quite a while, Optimus Prime."

"Look, Megatron," said Prime, sounding almost as worn out as he felt, "Either we keep up this dance until we fall together in a stasis-locked scrap-pile-" He glared at the Decepticon. "Or we try to preserve some shred of dignity, and handle this like leaders of our factions. What do you say?"

Preserving some part of his dignity sounded good to Megatron, but he'd be smelted before he'd say so. "Humph," he said instead, crossing his arms.

"Here's what I'm thinking," Prime went on, ignoring his old enemy's acerbity. "We'll push the two charge-berths together. Then we'll synch up our chronometers, and start a slow countdown. And on each count, you'll flip the switches on my bunk, and I'll set yours. That way, neither one of us has the chance to cheat the other. Sound fair?" he finished, flashing up a look at Megatron through optics dimmed by weariness.

The gray mech thought it over for a klik or two. But even as he stood there, he could feel his body grinding to a halt. "All right, you smelter-spawned, lube-sucking glitch," he huffed in resignation.

The two mechs pushed the heavy berths together in the middle of the room. Then with excruciating caution, they sat down in deadly proximity.

"All right," said Prime. "Step one. Connect the main charge cord to input panel. Here." He unwound a thick brown cable out from underneath the berth, and handed it to Megatron. The gray mech gave him a black look, but did the same. "Three... two... one..." said Prime, and simultaneously, the two bots jammed the plug-ends into couplings beneath each other's paneling.

"Right," growled Megatron. "Now for the power switch." He reached down between the two berths to a round green button on the side of Optimus's platform. The red Autobot followed suit. In a grim snarl, the Decepticon growled out the countdown: "Prime... is... a..." A sudden hum obscured the last word that he used, as two chargers roared to life in unison. But that was probably for the best.

Now for the tricky part. "Don't you dare try to cheat me!" warned the fierce Decepticon. Gingerly, each mech opened up his armaments, granting his erstwhile arch-enemy access to his inward workings.

They glared at one another, moving with exaggerated care. Both knew a single slip would set the other leaping to his own defense, and they would have to start this whole ridiculous game over from the beginning. When both had found their opposite's manual shut-off switch, they began the final countdown. Optimus began, a bit facetiously, "Till... all... are..."

He never made it to the last word. For both mechs fell together with a clang onto the recharge bunks, an awkward tangled heap of limbs, insensible to anything for the following three joors.


	2. Sometimes it all Comes Crashing Down

**A/N:** Some repetition of theme here, I know. But there were a lot of things in here that I couldn't bear to skip. So you get more.

The next one, I swear, is abut Elita. I have not forgotten her!

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><p><strong>Sometimes it All Comes Crashing Down<strong>

An ancient warrior-mech of Cybertron, who ruled the will of thousands with an iron fist, and wrought according to his own desire, sat shivering on the corner of a lonely recharge berth. He rebuked himself repeatedly, cycling through his extensive catalog of curses. But no matter what he muttered about his programming, his inception, or his make and model year, the fact remained that he was scared to go to sleep.

Without a cause, the big mech hunched in fear, his knees drawn up, his fists locked in between them. His shoulders shuddered, his chest rattled, and his feet beat a staccato rhythm on the floor.

There came a syncopated tapping at his door, a pesky, perky knock that violated all the gravitas of his tragic undoing. He growled, "Go away!" and blessed the locks upon his triple-layered door.

"Is everything all right?" asked Bumblebee. "You've been in there for several breems, but the chargers aren't activated yet."

"You're spying on me now?" the fighting mech accused. "Go tell your leader that his minions are nothing but a bunch of meddling backseat-drivers."

"I'll get right on that," came the bright reply.

Light footsteps pattered down the metal hallway from the opposite direction, pausing just outside his door. "He's just a big old scardy-cat," came Rumble's helpful commentary.

"Slag off!" warned Megatron in the growl both bots knew it was best not to ignore. Their footsteps skittered into silence, and Megatron resumed his trembling in his customary solitude.

But as so often was the case, he was betrayed. This time, it was his locks who sold him out. For they drew back at a touch, admitting a tall red Autobot who stared down at him from within the back-lit halo of the open doorway.

"Bumblebee told me you were having trouble," he explained.

"Oh really? He was supposed to say that Autobots were gossiping troublemakers who didn't know better than to stick their sensors in where they're not wanted," the Decepticon retorted.

"Oh," said the Autobot Commander, "Well, that does make a difference. I'll be sure to broadcast the corrected version to them."

The gray mech huffed. He waited in impatience for the plaguing mech to leave, so he could go back to his interrupted panic.

"Will that be all?" asked Prime with some frustration. "No other insulting messages you want me to convey? No update for me on your reasons for wasting valuable time in here?"

Megatron swore. "Just one for you, Prime. Don't let the door catch your foot on the way out."

Optimus clamped his vocalizer on the words that sprang up in reply. He shut the door, but shut it at his back. Now he was locked inside, and inside the room was darkness.

Sometimes, darkness was easier. In its dim safety, the sight of his old enemy would not flash residual alarms across his inner HUD. "It isn't like the Mighty Megatron to skulk like this," he said, crossing his arms in that particular way Megatron found so annoying. "So come on, out with it. What's going on, my Brother?"

It had been precisely thirteen orns, eight breems, and twenty-seven kliks since the Ceasefire had been declared. The very fact that Megatron knew this signaled that something was very wrong with him. Normally, unless Soundwave or Starscream prodded him about it, time was something Megatron did not believe applied to him. He didn't bother with it, as a rule.

He'd held it all together through those first terrible days. He'd kept his head in lightening and catastrophe. He'd made a glorious showing as he and Prime declared the truce permanent. He'd never weakened once. So why now was he huddled here inside the safety of his quarters, too afraid to face shutdown?

Of course Megatron said none of this. Instead, he only looked at Prime's glowing blue optics, and willed his own coal-red gaze to become a laser cutting through the Autobot Commander's chassis.

Optimus was not fooled by the glare. And he wasn't frightened either, although Megatron had set many another mech quailing with such a look.

Megatron cursed himself again. He should have known that bonding with a milquetoast Autobot might have a deleterious effect on his ability to terrify.

Unable now to daunt the Prime, the big Decepticon was left with only the fear that roiled within himself.

And now Prime had dared to come into his sanctum, to pollute the sterile purity of his angst with that slagging Autobot sincerity.

Optimus thought about repeating his question, but kept silent. Instead, he sighed, and felt his way across the room. Then he actually sat down beside his Brother. "I fritzed like this a couple orns ago," he admitted. "Was too afraid to shut down, give up control. It wasn't pretty." He sighed. "But then, Elita helped me." A little awkwardly, he put an arm around the shoulders of the big Decepticon. "I guess I'll have to do in your case, Brother."

"Get smelted, Optimus." Obstreperously, Megatron disparaged the Prime's upkeep of his armor, his personal habits, his processing acuity, and his alt-mode. Yet despite all that, he could not pull away from Optimus's side. The pressure of the Autobot's boxy frame against his shoulder, the encircling, steady arm across his back, was anchor to him; though he would have complimented Starscream's intellect before he'd have admitted as much to Prime. He choked, and blessed the darkness. He did not want to imagine what he looked like at this moment.

Prime handed him the charge line hesitantly. "I guess we'll both be glitchy for a while yet," he said. Then with a shrug, he added, "If you want, I'll keep you company."

The gray mech chuffed. "Now there's an excellent idea. You know the best thing for my jitters is to have your freakish, naked face be the first thing my optic sensors process on rebooting." He gave a leering thumbs-up. "I'll make my appointment with the Torkulon facilities now, shall I?"

Optimus couldn't help it. He chuckled. "Right, then. Just until you go offline." He gave the Decepticon a furtive grin. "And here I thought I'd have a good excuse to get out of dealing with my docket of duties for a few joors. I'll tell you now, sometimes I just want to just bash some of those mechs' heads together-" He broke off, and shoved the charge-cord back at Megatron. "Just go to sleep," he told the big Decepticon. "I'll sit here until you do."

"Whether I want you here or not?" retorted the old fighter.

Prime laughed. "Yup. You're stuck with me now, I'm afraid."

"Afraid? You may be, but I'm not." And just to prove to Prime he could, he jammed the charger into his powerbanks, and slumped inelegantly against his bondbrother, as insensible as a lump of lead.

Prime braced a hand against his chest before he could fall to the floor, slightly surprised. Then with the arm still wrapped around his old enemy's shoulders, he carefully laid the Decepticon Commander on the battered recharge berth.

He straightened the old mech's limbs as best he could, checking to make sure there were no hoses kinked or cables twisted in the linkages and joints. Then he pressed the button that would set the berth conforming to the gray frame's shape. He watched until the transformation was complete, smiling a little to himself.

Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly out the door, sliding it shut behind him.


	3. Present, Part 1

**A/N: **...Yeah. It's not going to be easy for these two, either. Nothing is free, especially not peace.

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><p><strong>Present <strong>

Although all charge-berths would transform in order to accommodate the varying bumps and kibble of the Cybertronians who would occupy them, it was customary to lie flat on one's back. It was simpler that way, easy and quick.

And yet Elita lay curled on her side, her hands folded together close against her chest, her bent knees pulled up tightly. As he took in what he saw, Prime flinched. His lifelong bondmate looked lost, wounded, and alone.

He hadn't seen her like this since they'd first been reformatted by the courtesy of Alpha Trion. She had not responded well to such a change, to such a cataclysmic rebirth.

He stepped into the room, and let the door slide shut behind him, the soft swish of its bearings blending with his own soft-vented sigh of acceptance. He knew full-well the pains of reformation. Even Cybertron itself had suffered turmoil at the onset of the Ceasefire. And here was Elita now, trying to fit in to a family that had been reformed around her without her consent.

It was so often this way – willing or no she would be handed an unexpected set of circumstances: a new body and a new role as the bondmate of the Prime... a few million years alone upon a dying planet, without knowledge of that bondmate's whereabouts... the addition of her greatest enemy into her bondmate's spark... And yet, she seldom said a word about it. She curled alone in a dark room instead. His spark constricted as he looked down at her, at this unguarded expression of honest pain which she would never have revealed while online.

He checked the charge berth's timer: 2.5 breems left before reboot. He checked his schedule: he was running late for a command meeting with the top lieutenants of both factions (and of course Megatron) in half a breem. After that, he (or at least, his trailer) was needed to help move trusses for a new bridge to the construction site at the city's outer rim. The thought distracted him for just a moment, and his miled a little to himself. He and Megatron had built a lot of bridges in the past few quartex, and not just figuratively. The Co-Commanders both felt it was vital to the integration project not to have the orbits of the city-states remain so isolated from each other. So far, the bi-faction construction effort in itself was working nearly as well as the new bridges were in keeping down rebellion.

Prime's glance fell back to his bondmate; and he blinked. Here was another bridge that needed shoring up – needed it right now. He commed to Prowl, making his apologies. There were some duties that ought not to wait a moment longer.

With care, the Prime lay down beside the femme he'd loved as long as he remembered. It wasn't easy; berths were narrow: even the largest were designed to hold only a single bot. But then, he had a bit of practice at this sort of thing. He lifted her head gently, and stretched out his left arm beneath her neck, so that her helm could rest upon it, against his shoulder. Then he wrapped his right arm around her middle, and drew her in to him. His bent knees fitted perfectly beneath hers on the berth.

They'd always fit together, even before the reformatting of their bodies. Back then, when things had seemed so simple, so safe, so serene, they'd recharged in each others arms because the could, because they fit, because they loved being together. One of Elita's greatest fears, as she'd surveyed the taller, grander Optimus Prime where once Orion Pax had once stood, was that she would no longer fit into his arms so perfectly. He'd proved her wrong, of course. And for his part, he'd clung to her. She'd always been his bulwark, his mainstay.

Over the course of ages, Prime had sometimes taken criticism for this habit. It was foolish, he was told, to take two leading officers out of circulation at the same time. What if there was an emergency? But Prowl, newly wise at the high cost of a lost bondmate, had deflected the objections with a word. And Optimus had insisted that some things were worth taking risks for. Elita was important; and although there would be many times when they would be apart for quartex, for vorns, for eons, they would always come back into each other's arms, come back into a single curl upon a single berth, where they would recombine into the singularity that was Orion and Ariel.

A singularity, that is, until Megatron had come along.

Now they were three. And Optimus spent much of his time with his new bond-brother, helping, hoping, even holding the Decepticon as he floundered and fought his secret battles in this unexpected bond. It wasn't that he'd forgotten Elita. It was that Megatron's need for him was obvious, immediate, and un-ignorable – accompanied as it often was by bouts of either loud profanity or punching holes in things.

Elita's need was as it always had been: an ever-present undercurrent pulling beneath everything she did.

_But perhaps the current has grown stronger of late, _Prime realized, as he allowed himself to sink into the blissful nearness of her. So often now, he felt himself pulled in two different directions, buffeted by opposing wills. In some ways he had drawn inward, making unconscious defence in response to those demands. But all Elita probably felt was that her anchor had slipped in its moorings, had perhaps even been tethered to another ship, and she was being dragged across the universal ocean to a destination she did not intend.

Optimus checked on his chronometer, anticipating her awakening. This time, he swore, he would be here for her, would show her he was not going to leave her, show her that for all the recent complications, he was still the same young mech who'd fallen in love with her all those uncounted ages ago.

He waited, with his arms around her tightly, for the quiet ping that signaled the charge-end, and for the well-known hum of life that would course through Elita's frame, bringing it back online and into life.

The moment, when it came, was not at all what he'd expected.

She came to with a gasp. Wrapped in his strong arms, Elita went rigid. And from her spark there radiated such strong fear that even Optimus, who tended to be bumbling in such abstract matters as energy, could sense it. She gave a muffled cry of terror – _"Optimus!"_

And then her entire frame fell slack, and she sank against him with a little laughing sob of pain.

"What's wrong?" he asked, distressed.

It was a moment – a long moment – before Elita would reply.

"Your energy has changed since your spark-bond," she said. "I thought-"

And he could almost hear the ache as each carefully-chosen word was pushed, resisting, from her vocalizer.

"When I came to, I thought that you were Megatron."

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><p><strong>Postscript:<strong> There will be more to this. I won't just leave them there. I know in some ways it is mean to leave this as such a punch-in-the-gut cliffhanger. But to just swim right on into the resolution would cheapen the real hardship that Elita's going through.


	4. Present, Part 2

**A/N: **...And here's the ending of this particular interlude.

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><p><strong>Present, Pt. 2<strong>

He stiffened. Then the strength of his limbs drained into a pit of sorrow. "Should I leave, then, sweetheart?" he asked tonelessly. "I mean, if I hurt you..."

Elita, fast as the trained warrior she had become, locked her arm around his elbow, trapping it against her side. Her shell of independence cracked. "Don't ever say you'll leave me, Optimus. You mustn't leave me. I need you, Orion! Please don't go!"

He tucked his face into her neck, and drew himself up tight against her body. "I'm not going anywhere, dearest, unless you drive me off." He thought for a nanoklik. "Or, you know, unless you ask me to..."

Elita laughed a little. But after that, they did not speak again for a long while. Although their forms were intertwined, the mech and femme wandered alone in separate, dark thoughts. The way ahead was murky, and neither one knew the best way to go. It had been ages since they'd felt so disconnected, so unsure of one another.

"Does my-" he grimaced "_Our_ energy hurt you?" asked Prime at last, determined to have the worst out and face it head-on.

Elita thought about it. "It doesn't hurt, exactly," she replied slowly. "It was mostly just the shock. I mean, I don't know what I thought exactly, but-" She shuddered. "It wasn't very nice..." Her voice faded into an uncomfortable silence.

Optimus did not know what he should say. So he said nothing.

Elita drew a long breath through her vents, pulling herself together. "I don't _believe_ he'd try to hurt or trap me," she declared. "But he's still Megatron. It will be a long time yet before I trust him automatically in that first groggy moment of reboot!"

"I know what you mean," said Prime. He huffed a little laugh. "I banned him from entering my quarters for the first few kliks after reboot. He scared the slag out of me a few orns ago." He shrugged against the bunk. "You saw."

"I understand that he is changed. I understand he doesn't mean us harm. But my CPU is lagging on that front. And he still reeks of a thousand murders in the past, no matter what he swears he wants to become now."

"I know, sweetheart," said Prime.

"You... You have the memories, and bear the burden of them too. You bear the stench," she said resignedly. "I don't envy you that."

"But can _you_ bear it?" Prime asked anxiously. "Because-" he hunkered close against her. "Because I'm still me, Ari. I still love you. I still need you. Even though I'm drenched in Darkest Essence of the Evil Megatron."

She laughed at that. "It's not always that bad," she said, still chuckling in her throat. "There's more to him than death and chaos. I do know that much." She sighed in resignation. "This has to grow easier with time, doesn't it? I mean, as new and better memories dilute the old horrific ones...?" She shrugged, scraping her shoulder against his chin. "I have to believe it's possible, Orion."

"I hope it is," said Prime with feeling.

"Hope is a powerful force," she said. "Which is a good thing, since it's all we have."

The two Autobots sank into a companionable silence. In the quiet dark, they focused on the feel of one another's arms, the familiarity bred of long intimacy. Elita slowed the labored churning of her engine, and let her fans get caught up in the cooling of her servos. Then she turned to face her bondmate. "Since we've gotten all that out of the way," she said at last, "What would you say to making a few new happy memories right now?"

Optimus smiled in relief, and pulled her close. "Is this a trick question?" he asked.

*Fade to Black*


	5. The Burden Hardest to Bear

****A/N: ****This is from a part in Transformation when things go sour for a bit, and some people get killed off. I killed Inferno in a thoughtless roll of the dice, and then had guilt for MONTHS afterwards about it. Authors are sometimes murderers, too.

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><p><strong>The Burden Hardest to Bear<strong>

"Can I do anything to help you?" Prime asked, half hoping to be given some impossible request that might help take his mind off what his Security Director was going through.

"There is nothing, and you ought to know it. Just leave me alone, Optimus."

_Optimus._ Before, the ever-proper Red Alert would never have addressed his Leader so familiarly. Before Inferno's spark had sputtered out, not half an orn ago.

Prime ducked his head, trying and failing to keep some semblance of emotional distance. He nodded silently to Ratchet, who had come here to make sure the bond-sundered white Autobot would shut down for a lengthy respite.

Red Alert saw the nod, and bristled. "It isn't going to help, you know. No matter how long I'm offline, he'll still be dead when I reboot!" He glared at Ratchet. "Half an orn. That's all I'll give to you. Inferno or no Inferno, I've got work to do."

Prime watched, but stayed well back as Ratchet shoved the reluctant Red Alert up onto the high berth. _This wasn't how it was supposed to go!_ The thought thrashed in his mind. _Inferno was supposed to rust away a million-million vorns from now, replete with joy and life well-lived. He wasn't meant to die in a last-gasp rebellion, after 'Bots and 'Cons had finally agreed to a ceasefire!_ Three mechs had been killed in this battle; and in its aftermath one had been executed, and seven put in permanent spark-containment.

Ratchet's words were gruff, but his face held sorrow and pity as he hung a drip above the berth, and slid its thin line into the main charge duct. "I'm putting in a slow-release sedative, a numbing agent to dull the pain in your spark until it heals a little more. It should last a few quartex at least." He met the white and red mech's gaze. "Non-negotiable, I'm afraid. You do him no honor if you insist on suffering for him." The Medic's optics softened. "You know he wouldn't like it if you did."

Prime's impulse, crazy though he knew it to be, was to rush across to the spark-torn mech and hold him in his arms, to somehow shield his soldier with his body and block out the unimaginable pain of a bond-brother killed in battle. And yet he wondered if his very presence here was pain to Red Alert. For after all, both of _his_ bondmates were alive.

Prime watched, but stayed well back as Ratchet hooked the bereaved bot into the system, and thumbed the starter switch. The chargers hummed, and Red Alert's dulled optics faded into blackness. The Medic's shoulders sagged, and he placed a hand over the offline mech's unlit lenses almost as if in benediction.

"There's nothing more that you or I or anyone can do for him, Optimus. But as your doctor I'm prescribing you a quiet cycle or two yourself." He held up a hand to silence Prime's refusal. "I know there's still a lot of slag that has to be cut through. But Ironhide and Prowl and Shockwave and the others will see to it. Get out of here, and don't come back to Command for three more joors at the minimum, unless I personally call you." He pointed an uncompromising finger. "Go."

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><p>Elita came to him without a word. Subtle as a snake and twice as crafty, she unclenched his rigid fingers, slid onto his knees, and before he knew it she was wrapped around him like the strong mesh slings that Ratchet sometimes used to brace a weakened joint while he repaired its linkages. He was grateful. And so was she. He was as much her refuge as she was his. Together, they could both retreat from the convulsion of the outside world, shore up their mutual defenses, and regroup before they had to sally forth once more.<p>

Speech was a burden, but both mech and femme ached to release the pent-up thoughts that clawed and clamored at their processors. So Elita unspooled a thin universal input/output cable from her wrist, and hooked in into Prime's. They sat and shared, unspeaking, for a time which neither bothered to measure, for they both knew it could never be enough.

Somehow, though neither noticed the transition, they ended up lying together on the single berth: Elita with her back hunched up against her bondmate, and Prime's uppermost hand running slowly over her plating in a habitual motion that was part caress, part unconscious check-up of his beloved's armament.

It was at this point that the door opened, and Megatron stopped hesitantly on the sill.

The Decepticon Commander had shot a clean hole through Razorclaw's spark-casing, and seen his lifeless shell delivered to the Recyclers with some ceremony. He'd asked the other Predacons if they wanted the engineers to see about putting some drone programming into the now-gray frame, in order to facilitate the combiner team's continued transformation into Predaking. But to a bot, the Decepticon team members had met his suggestion with undisguised revulsion. They were a unit, and they'd lost their center module. They'd lost their leader and – he presumed, despite the stone-cold reputation that the Predacons had built – their friend as well. But though he knew they must be feeling the loss deeply, he respected the fact that they would refuse to show it. With a nod that carried an almost-imperceptible salute, he'd turned away. Then he'd discharged the most pressing of his duties, turned the rest over to his underlings, and retreated into the recharge dormitories where he hoped he might find Prime.

He should have known, he supposed now as he looked down at the Autobots, that he'd find Elita here as well. He turned to go.

Prime made a strangled, wordless sound, and reached out toward his bond-brother. Elita'd tensed at seeing him; but now, slowly, she shrugged. "All right," was all she said; and Optimus relaxed.

Normally, Megatron would have despised the awkward hesitancy with which he sidled up to the charge platform, drew out its extension built for the few extra-wide bots, and slid on behind Prime. But right now he was clinging to the constancy that family was offering to him, and that was worth looking a little like a fool. He hunkered in, trying to find a place to put his lower arm (Optimus lifted his head so Megatron could tuck his elbow underneath it) and held onto his bond-brother's middle with the other. He tried, from simple courtesy, to keep from touching Elita. But she grabbed his hand and pulled it down around her too, even as Prime hooked his arm up and over the Decepticon's.

Inextricably entangled, the trio of bots listened to the clash and thunder of a distant cousin of the great energy storms that had rocked all Cybertron at the opening of the Ceasefire. Rare now, they still sprang up now and then, and all three bots could only feel that the weather outside mirrored the storms within their sparks.

It was a tribute to the top lieutenants of both factions that their leaders were left undisturbed for almost six joors. There was time enough for silence; time enough for speech, and even time enough for all three to drop gradually at last into the blessed quiet of a slow-run power-saving mode. Optics dimmed, internals idling softly, and processors finally untangled, the little family found refuge in each others arms for this one dark and stormy night.


	6. Caught

**A/N:** By now, we've progressed into the future far enough that we're out past the point where Transformation ends. But that doesn't mean there's not much more to do. And some day, I'll start writing it... But for now, here's a taste.

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><p><strong>Caught<strong>

The door of Prime's personal quarters slid open with a soft whisper of bearings, and Megatron looked up in abject horror.

One arm was stretched out underneath Prime's head; the other wrapped around his chest; and the damn, blasted berth had of course transformed up around them, so that Megatron could only exit now if he were disassembled first.

"You were off planet!" he yelped in self-righteous accusation. "What was I supposed to do?" He tried without success to wriggle free of this ignominious position. He glared up at Elita. "You know how he gets sometimes. I couldn't leave him like-"

Elita broke into a quiet, throaty chuckle, and held up a hand to silence him. She ducked her head and turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose in a gesture Megatron could swear he'd seen before somewhere.

She waited till her processor slowed down to a reasonable speed. It had been a long trip, and she was tired. But she'd come back early to their home, planning to surprise Optimus. She shook her head. Well, at least _someone_ had been surprised. "What happened?" she asked. "The usual?"

Megatron grunted. "Yeah. You know. He'd holed up in here for two joors before I came to find him. Fragged-up glitch was trying to bear up the whole world again."

Elita sighed. "One day, he'll stop pretending that he has to do it all without our help," she said. "That's what I tell myself, at least. About every other orn..."

Megatron _humphed_ in wry amusement. "I missed you," he said suddenly. "This place is not the same without you. And of course it goes without saying that Op's here was a wreck without his 'Lita. He pretended otherwise, but I could tell," the gray mech added smugly. "How'd it go?"

Elita huffed again, and came to sit down on the berth. "Oh, you know. Negotiations and diplomacy. Trade agreements. Treaties. Technological exchanges. Honestly, right now I think I'd trade a limb to stay here for an full vorn without having to go offworld again."

Megatron lifted the fingers of his free hand in a shrugging gesture. "You could suddenly become the _worst _ambassador we've ever had, instead of the best, you know. I'm just saying."

Elita snorted, an unladylike sound she reveled in after almost a vorn spent in practiced, pained politeness. "Where would that leave us? Should we send _you_ in my place?"

"Ha. I bet _that_ would go well," he retorted. "Greetings, Nebulan survivors! This time, I have _not_ come here to kill you!"

Eita doubled over in laughter, though she tried to keep it muffled in her hands. "You're wicked!" she hissed, when her vocoder stopped clicking.

Megatron looked at the red Autobot wrapped in his arms, and grimaced. "Yeah. Behold the Mighty Megatron, Destroyer of Worlds. See how he cradles his bond-brother so that the big red lugnut might drop into shut-down instead of trembling in the dark like a scared newling. See how he stays to reassure the waking Prime with his mere presence. How fearsome is his mien, how murderous his gaze, how thunderous his words of woe..."

He stopped. "Hey... You could have let me out of this when you first walked in, you know! He twisted fruitlessly, trying to see over his shoulder. "Where is that slagging button..."

Elita grinned. "I wouldn't _dream_ of it. I've been enjoying your predicament too much to bring it to a close so soon! In fact-" her grin widened, "I'm saving some image-files from the past few kliks for future reference!"

"You glitching little-!" But suddenly, Megatron's expression changed. "Elita," he said soberly, "Let me out."

The pink femme was still laughing. "What? No! Why?"

"Because," he said with the crisp diction of forced patience, "Don't you think he would rather wake to find _you_ in his arms than me here at his back?"

Elita slumped. "I slagging well hope so!"

"Trust me," Megatron replied. "He would."

Elita bristled at his knowing tone. "What? You didn't-"

A little frantically, Megatron waved his free hand in self-defense. "You were gone! He asked! And after all, it's not like he lets me mess around with his wiring the way you get to!"

"Humph," was all Elita said. She sounded a far cry from the self-possessed emissary of the past vorn, who had visited a dozen planetary systems and secured three major alliances. She sounded like the young femme Ariel.

"Let me out, sweetheart," called Megatron with unaccustomed gentleness. "He's only got a few more nanokliks till reboot. Let's get you into his arms now, before he comes to. Then I give you my word I'll make certain that the two of you aren't bothered for an orn or two, all right?"

"All right," Elita replied flatly. She slipped around behind the gray Decepticon, and pressed the berth's release. The blocky shapes that had emerged to hold in the two big mechs sank into its dull-gold metallic surface; and soon Megatron was free. Well, free after he'd extricated his left arm from beneath Prime's dead-weight head.

He stood, and looked down at the thin pink femme. "I really have missed you," he said. He cocked a grin. "You're like my sister – you know; almost." He held out his arms. "Hug?"

Elita never had managed to stay mad at him for anything like the length of time he probably deserved. She wrapped her arms around his waist. "It's good to be home," she murmured against his flat chest.

The charger's hum began to change, and Megatron jumped into action. They laughed together as he lifted Optimus's arm and helped to shove her beneath its blocky form.

"All set?" he whispered, backing toward the exit.

Elita gave a contented thumbs-up. She'd missed Optimus's arms more than she wanted to admit to Megatron, and the comfort of their familiar weight was already making up for much of her past loneliness.

The door slid open. "Bye, Megs," she called softly.

The Decepticon Commander banged his head against the doorjamb in sudden exasperation. "Primacron beneath us – don't you start it too!" he grumbled. He went out, still swearing, and the door slid shut, leaving the Autobot bondmates alone in darkness.

Optimus stirred beside her. "What...?" he asked muzzily. Then his arms drew tight around her. "Elita!" he exclaimed. "You're home early!"

Elita smiled, satisfied, and snuggled into his embrace. "I'm home," she reaffirmed.


	7. That's What Brothers are For

**A/N:** Holy sweet Primus, this one ended up expanding and becoming about four times longer than I'd initially thought. But dang, I like it. I love how these beloved bots will take over the writing of a story, insisting that they tell "what really happened."

OK. So a few notes – TF's still don't have tear ducts. But any other word was just too long and cumbersome.

Also, in TF Ongoing #22, Megatron apparently used to make up poetry. Yesss. And thussly am I vindicated in all charges that perhaps I've softened the big gray lug overmuch.

Glee.

* * *

><p><strong>That's What Brothers Are For<strong>

"He needs you," said Elita bluntly, charging into the Decepticon Commander's office without so much as a knock.

Megatron rose abruptly from his chair. "Are _you_ all right?" he asked quickly, turning to touch her shoulder as he passed.

"I'm fine!" she snapped. "Just go to Prime!"

"You're still important to him," the gray mech offered lamely. "I'm not-"

"Megatron," she said, "If you're not in his quarters in five kliks, you're going to experience pain. And probably the loss of a few limbs. Just a fair warning."

She slammed the door behind him as he left. Then she sank down to the floor in one dark corner of the Decepticon Commander's office, wrapped her arms around her knees, and cried.

* * *

><p>"Wow. Great atmosphere you've got here," Megatron commented as he walked into Prime's sanctum of gloom. The room was only dimly-lit by running lights along its edges midway up the walls. And Optimus was radiating desolation and distemper in such strong concentration that Megatron would not have been surprised to find the floor was oozing thick black gunk.<p>

Prime huffed in glum acknowledgment. "I've got all my worst memories – and quite a few of yours – playing on a loop in my processor. And I can't seem to find the "stop" button, he explained unnecessarily.

Megatron flourished a hand. "Fear not!" he proclaimed grandly. "For I am here to help you find it!"

"Primacron protect me," muttered Optimus in an undertone.

"And now," continued Megatron, schlumping himself down beside Prime on his berth, "Let's see what's on this loop of yours."

"This is so humiliating," Optimus complained, but obediently he raised his head; and suddenly a flickering blue cone of light was projecting moving images from a tiny transmitter beside his optics, onto the metallic surface of the wall in front of them.

Not every transformer could do such a thing, of course. But after a few episodes like this way back in the early days of the Great War, Ratchet had demanded that Prime install something that would allow the Medic to see what his Commander was reacting to. Of course, the Autobot Doctor could have hacked into Optimus's systems with a medical link-up. But this alternate method had two advantages. First it was less invasive. And secondly it forced Prime to project his memories outside himself, to see them as historical occurrences, instead of present pains.

Ratchet's insight had proved most useful. But there were still times, once in a long while, when the good Doctor's help was not enough. _And anyway_, as Optimus complained when he was being peevish, _so much of this was Megatron's fault in the first place_...

"Elita's mad at me, you know," remarked the gray Decepticon, watching the silent images rush back and forth across the wall.

Prime blinked. "I know. I hate shutting her out like this. She's tougher than I give her credit for; but at the same time, wallowing in all this with me would put a great weight on her spirit. And I just can't _do_ that to her, Megatron!"

"Which is why you call on me," the Decepticon replied easily. "I'm the heartless mech who doesn't flinch when your spark-light is blacker than a dirty engine block, and just as grimy."

"Nice metaphor," Prime put in dryly.

"If the wing-nut fits..." Megatron replied. "I suppose I could come up with something different – perhaps a reference to the sewers underneath the Smelting Pool-"

"Yes, yes," said Prime sardonically. "You'll be spouting poetry about it, next, I shouldn't wonder."

"But not tonight," said Megatron, looking uncomfortable. Anxious to get onto a new topic, he went on, "In any case, I'm safe to blather to. Because you know that you can toss that dirty engine block of yours right at my head, and never leave a mark."

Prime snorted. "Not any more, I can't," he teased. "Your flower cap can't take it."

"_Flower cap!_ You-!"

In equanimity, they called each other names for quite a while. Then Prime said, looking out into the glowing memories upon the wall, "I suppose there are some good moments wrapped up in all this slag. I must admit to a bit of dark glee when I beat your punk face in with your precious fusion cannon." He huffed. "I've also sent you to the rim of the Allspark on more than one occasion."

Megatron grunted. "Yeah, but you'll notice that I lived. Not all of us require a special dispensation from our god to keep us ticking."

"Irreverent hunk of scrap."

"Damn straight. I'd cuss my Maker to his face."

"-And have done so. I hope that you were proud," said Prime.

The gray mech shifted his position, finding a more comfortable seat. He nudged the Autobot Commander down onto his side, and hefted his blue helm onto his lap. "Remember back on earth, when I kept your head as a souvenir, and had the 'Structies build whatever they wanted out of your spare parts?" He smiled his most devilish grin. "That was a lot of fun," he added, patting Prime's shoulder absently.

"We still laugh about that whole episode in Captains' briefings, actually," replied the red mech, curling in contentment.

"How dare you laugh?" retorted Megatron. "It was a gruesome humiliation, terrifying in the extreme. And more importantly, I scored one over on you big time that day." The big mech puffed out his chest in smug satisfaction.

"It seemed so juvenile at the time," remarked Prime affably. He shot a look at Megatron. "Still does, in fact..."

"You slagger! I'll upload a virus into your charge-berth for that one!"

"You wouldn't," replied Prime contentedly. "But go ahead and threaten all you want, if it makes you feel better."

Megatron swore, and clamped a hand over his bond-brother's mouth. It wouldn't block all the sound from his speakers, but it was the spirit of the thing that mattered. Optimus punched him in the side, also to maintain the look of the thing.

"Slagging glitch," said Megatron agreeably.

"Noxious, malformed effluence from the waste-pools of the Pit."

"Wow, Optimus. I'm impressed! That was a pretty good one."

Prime gave an impish grin. "Yeah, I've always had a way with words..."

"That's because beneath the Matrix-bestowed hoo-rah, you're still just a jumped-up librarian."

"And proud of it!" said Prime.

They sat (or lay, in Prime's case) in silence for a while. Megatron stared unseeing at the projections still flickering before them. Slowly, his head began to tilt over to one side. When he finally realized what he was doing, he yelped and waved a hand impatiently. "Shut that thing off, for Pit's sake. It's nothing that I haven't seen before. And besides, it's sideways now, you little slagger."

Prime chuckled. "It probably makes more sense that way..." But he obliged. And now the room was dark and still. Peaceful, in fact. It still surprised them, even after several vorns, how much contentment the two former enemies could find in one another's company.

Megatron _toinggg-_ed the end of one of Prime's helm-finials, abstractedly."You got anything specific you want to get off of your chest?" he asked at last.

"Not really," Prime admitted. He paused. "Although you do seem to have found the stop button on that vid-stream after all. Nice work," he acknowledged grudgingly. He hunched his shoulder up against Megatron's leg, hoping for a yelp if he could get his arm-smokestack to gouge the other mech a little. But Megatron was wise to that attack by now, and simply lifted up his thigh and set it down upon the offending cylinder, trapping Prime's shoulder beneath it. Optimus grumbled some mild objection, but subsided.

"You actually like this!" Megatron complained, trying to sound affronted. "You just want someone to take care of you, for a change, instead of feeling like you're responsible for the fate of the whole planet."

"You're absolutely right," replied Prime without a trace of shame. "It's nice being the little bot in the equation, instead of the Great Autobot Commander."

Megatron grinned. "_Rock-a-bye Primey, on the treeee-toooooppp_ – " he sang, his gravely voice squeaking. "You know," he put in, creaking to a sudden stop, "I'll never understand what in the Pit that lullaby is supposed to be about. Earthlings make no sense at all."

Prime laughed. But then he sobered. "I wish I didn't have to run away from Elita."

Megatron huffed in heartfelt agreement. After all, he'd seem her face. "You're still trying to be the Big Mech and protect her?" he asked glumly.

Optimus snorted. "She hates it when I do that."

"But..." Megatron shrugged uncomfortably. "She can't let all your sludge roll off of her, the way I can.'

Prime said nothing. He didn't always like this new arrangement, even though recovery for him had been so much more difficult before the arrival of Megatron into their little bond-family.

"I will admit it makes me feel all kinds of heroic and scrap, when I get to be the Great Healer for the Prime," said the Decepticon. "You should enter that into the famous records that you Archivists like to keep." Then, somewhat flustered, he added, "But, you know, don't _really_ put it in-!".

Optimus considered in mock solemnity. "Megs the Hero. It has a certain ring to it..."

"Shut up, you fragging lugnut," yipped Megatron, thumping the Prime's red shoulder, and then hugging him a little.

"That's me."

"Quit talking, and shut down, I mean it. I've got better things to do."

"Yes, Megatron," said Prime meekly.

The gray mech flinched. "Stop that!"

"Whatever you say, Great Megatron."

"Fragging cut that out!"

"I love you, Megatron."

The Decepticon sighed (a pathetic affectation brought on by too much time spent in the company of sappy Autobots). "I love you too, you slagging glitch. Now go to sleep!"

"Would you check on Elita for me?" Prime asked, sober again.

"Yes, Optimus," returned the gray Decepticon, trying to imitate the cloying tone his Brother had used earlier, and failing. "I'll make sure she's all right."

"Thanks, old man," Prime mumbled. And he gave Megatron's leg one last good punch, for luck.

"All in day's work," replied the gray mech with a roll of his red optics .

But Optimus had already dropped off into a senseless idle/rest-mode.

* * *

><p>Megatron pinged Elita's comm the moment he left Prime's quarters, but all he got back was a residual image on the building's locator grid. Had she really not left his workroom? He sped up, almost sprinting down the last hallway.<p>

"Little One? Are you in here?" he called, keying the door open.

It was dark inside, the lights shut down as they would be in an unoccupied room. But somehow he did not think it was as empty as it seemed.

"Sweetheart? Where are you?"

A tiny hiccup caught his auditory sensor, and he turned. Elita was hunched in a narrow space between one of his data-stacks and the far wall. The fact that she'd not bothered to get up – to try to seem unruffled and controlled – was by far the most disturbing thing he'd seen all day, and that included the things played out on Prime's old memory reel. He hurried over to her, and crouched down beside the little femme.

"Hey. 'Lita..." His call sounded almost plaintive as he held out a hand to her. "Come on out of there, ok?"

She shook her head, refusing to be drawn out of her hidey-hole.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you hurt?" She gave a harsh snort, but shook her head again.

"This is about the thing with Prime?"

Elita's tight vocoder clicked; but still she did not trust herself to speak.

Feeling awkward, Megatron sat down upon his workroom floor, and reached out a hesitating hand to pat the femme's slim ankle. (It was the only part of her that he could reach.) He was nervous, not sure whether his presence would be a help or burden to her.

Megatron loved the little femme without restraint. Into her he poured all of the unspent care he would have shown to others, had he chosen to become something besides what he had been. And yet, as always, an old worry niggled at the back of his mind – a worry that he might break Elita without meaning to.

The knowledge that she'd thrown him on his back in more than one impromptu wrestling match did nothing to dispel this feeling. She was a femme. And Megatron had long been in the habit of breaking the femmes he came across.

"He's resting now. Much better," he reported, just for something to say. But it didn't seem to be the right thing; for Elita's vocals only hitched, and her arms clutched even more tightly around her middle, as if she were in pain.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, withdrawing his arm in quick concern.

She shook her head, huffed into her tightly-drawn-up knees, and still said nothing.

"He asked me to make sure you were ok," he told her numbly. "He's in idle right now – defragging his processor – or he would do it himself."

"I know," she muttered curtly.

"So he's ok, but you're not," the big Decepticon declared. "What's wrong, sweetheart? I hate seeing you like this."

"He's ok."

"Yes..." Megatron wondered why she sounded like this was a bad thing.

"He's ok. You helped him. I could never help him."

Megatron tried to contest that point – he knew how much Elita gave to Prime – but the femme silenced him with a single raised finger.

He waited. One thing he was learning from these Autobots was the value of patience. And on occasion Megatron took those lessons to heart.

When they emerged, Elita's words sounded as if they'd been pushed through a criss-cross of razorwire: they tore as they emerged. "Before, back when he used to have to go through this alone, I'd wait outside his door, hating myself for my weakness. Ratchet would do whatever he could do..." She raised her head and met his gaze. "Now you're the one who can defuse his waking nightmares. But I'm still waiting on the outside. Locked out because I am not strong enough to take it."

Megatron choked. "But precious, don't you understand he wouldn't have you any other way? You are – you are his Ariel!"

"But I'm no good," she said, in tones so low that Megatron almost did not hear them. But when he'd processed their small sounds, his vocalizer clicked and something broke free in his spark.

"Don't say that!" Megatron grabbed hold of Elita's foot, and pulled her from her corner. He took her roughly by the shoulders, fighting down an impulse to shake her. "Don't ever say that you're no good! 'Cause that's a load of _scrap_,"he told her angrily.

At last, Elita flared. She twisted from his grip, reacting with reflexes trained through vorns of hard warfare. She crouched before him, servos whirring, optics wide, awake and ready for attack.

As suddenly as he had lunged, Megatron drew back, and dropped his head into his hands. He'd failed to keep his anger caged. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Elita's light cydraulics hissed. Watching him all the while, she sank down from her battle-ready crouch. At last, unspeaking, she sat down beside him with her back against the wall, and leaned her shoulder against his. "I still function," she said dully.

Megatron did not know what to do. He felt almost crazy with wanting to make everything all better; but everything he did only seemed to make things worse. "What can I do?" he asked, a little brokenly. "What do you need from me?"

"I don't know," she declared, sounding dead-tired.

"I just want-" He choked, his grating voice made rougher by emotion. "I wish I could just hold you and make everything all right." He chuffed. "With Prime, it is so easy..."

"Femmes are more complicated," she declared, sounding as if right now she wished they weren't.

"So I'm learning," he replied grimly.

"But we do like hugs," she said, and leaned against him with a worn-out sigh.

Megatron gawped at her a little. Then he threw his arms around her frame, and drew her clumsily into his inelegant lap. He cupped his hand around her helm, and held her tightly to his chest. He was overwhelmed with gratitude that she had given him a second chance. He stroked her armor, but then winced at the sharp screel of metal against metal. So he forced himself to stillness. Time passed. A micron at a time, his pounding systems slowed, till finally he drowsed in contentment.

Slowly, very slowly, Elita loosened her taut servos. With small movements, she made herself more comfortable in the Decepticon's gray arms. All was quiet and still. She curled against him, lost in thought. At first, she did not notice what had changed. But when she did, she looked up at Megatron in shock.

"My walls are down," she said in some amazement, "But you're not hurting me."

His optics flared in quick alarm. "I'm hurting you?" he asked her anxiously, opening his arms in haste.

"No, no, you silly mech. That's what I'm trying to tell you," she said, almost laughing at his exaggerated caution. "Right now, I feel as safe with you as I do with Orion. That's-" she broke off, marveling. "That's incredible."

She snuggled down against his chest. And a slow smile spread across Megatron's face. The longer he had known her, the more it bothered him that his spark-energy could sometimes hurt Elita. But now, with her contented in his arms, he felt an upsurge of pure happiness. Right here, in this moment, he was no menace to the bots he loved and trusted. Right now, he could go out into the universe free of the fear that he might somehow break it. In this one bright instant, he was free.

He bent to touch his brow to the crest of Elita's helm. "Thanks, sweetie," he whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd find another femme to wrap your dreams around," she told him lightly. She gave a little laugh. "And you've got a lot of options. There are so many new femmes around now..."

"But none of them are you." Megatron grew somber for an instant. "Elita, please don't think you're no good. I hated hearing you say that. I don't think Prime – and I slagging well _know_ that I – can ever say how much we love you. You're our Elita. Your presence is a gift."

For a moment, the pink femme said nothing. Then, "Thanks, Megatron," she replied.

She hesitated, sighed, and then said with obvious reluctance, "I'd better go try to get caught up on the stuff I dropped when I came in here to have my little hissy-fit."

Megatron laughed. "What's on your docket for the day?"

She huffed. "The usual. A couple new femmes and a newling mech to find some mentors for; a disciplinary hearing about something Chromia did to Motormaster's undercarriage after he called her a- Never mind. You know how it is. The list goes on and on..."

He smiled. "Sounds like I ought to let you get back to it, then." He helped to lift her to her feet, then met her gaze with unusual sincerity. "Elita," he began, "I-" He shrugged, as if his armor itched him. "You're-"

Once again, Elita stopped him with a hand. She touched her fingers to her own chestplate, then reached out to brush them against his. The sign of loyalty. "I love you too, Megatron," she said. Then with a wink, she walked out of his office; and the door slid shut behind her.

Megatron leaned back against the wall, and stared up at the girdered ceiling, speculating. He'd slain – or ordered the deaths of – more than a thousand femmes in his lifetime. If you'd asked him he'd have shot you for suggesting he could care for one of them so deeply.

But now Elita's words had got him thinking. Since his and Prime's spark-bond – and after, as he watched the two of them – he'd grown a little jealous of the special bond that she and Prime had built togehter. He wanted someone of his own to snuggle, strange as that might seem. But until now, he'd never thought that he, the half-crazed butcher Megatron, could earn the trust of any of the femmes.

"_Remember, Megatron my friend, that you are good at being kind. And you do know how to love,"_ Elita-One had said to him, a vorn or two ago. He wasn't certain even now that he could quite believe her. After all, he'd let his anger get the best of him already once tonight. He pushed a long, slow breath out through his vents, and clambered with the stiffness of an aged bot up to his feet. He wasn't ready quite yet. But it was something he would strive for, a new Something to aim for.

He straightened a few items on his desk, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. By the time he walked out through the door of his workroom, an ancient pre-war melody was humming on his lips.


	8. Resting Comfortably, Part 1

**Resting Comfortably, Part 1**

_I'll just look in on him a nanoklik,_ the Decepticon rationalized. Although he never said as much out loud, the fact that he could enter Prime's quarters at will, even while the Autobot was offline, still gave him a little thrill of conquest. He always told himself that he was merely checking up on Optimus. But what he mostly did was stand beside Prime's berth and indulge in a little Ominous Looming. He'd review a few of the Conquering Evil Overlord Speeches that he'd never gotten to give (there were hundreds, all stored up in his memory, and waiting to be called on). Sometimes, he just pulled scary faces.

This time he definitely pulled a face; but it wasn't of the Evil Conqueror variety. Instead, it was more in the category of outraged disgust.

"Really, Optimus?" he said before he thought to stop himself from speaking to an offline bot. "Is this befitting a Commander? What if one of the others saw you like this?"

Megatron was certainly no Nightbeat – in fact, he had little patience for a mech who sat and sifted through the evidence, instead of going to the nearest bots and shaking the real story out of them. But it did not take a detective to imagine what had happened here.

Optimus was sprawled where he had fallen, and lay face-down on his bunk. _(Face-first is_ _more likely,_ grumbled Megatron, annoyed.) His left arm dangled off from one side; and his right foot hung over the opposite edge of the platform. Prime hadn't even bothered to hit the button _(A single button, Optimus! It's not that difficult!)_ to set the berth conforming to his shape. The gray Decepticon could not decide whether his bond-brother looked more like a gruesome war casualty, or like a mech who'd fallen into stasis lock mid-quaff, after one high-grade cube too many.

Grousing in an affronted undertone, Megatron applied all manner of uncomplimentary names to the red Autobot. He knew that Optimus was neither dead nor drunk. And that was somehow ten times worse. Optimus Prime had come in here, that slagging piece of scrap, and flopped onto his charge-bunk like a half-'grammed 12-byte grunt.

The Prime, as Megatron was learning to his ultimate chagrin, had absolutely no sense of proper decorum. His office was always a mess; he spoke familiarly with his soldiers (and what was worse, they spoke familiarly with him); he even indulged on occasion in a few of their ridiculous games. He _grinned_, now that he had abandoned that famous faceplate of his. (Megatron had questioned his decision to reforge that thing a million times since then.) He laughed a lot. Pit-smelted Autobot, he _chortled _on occasion. He greeted his two bondmates with unabashed enthusiasm, throwing his arms around Elita, or launching a gleeful punch at Megatron's shoulder when they met. And all this in front of his subordinates.

And yes, when his power was running low, the Prime, the light by which all of New Cybertron was led, fell on his bunk face-first.

Grunting a little, because Optimus was no lightweight minibot, Megatron rolled his Brother over on his back. He straightened his akimbo arms and legs. He crossed his hands over his chest. He made certain both toes pointed properly skyward. He closed Prime's gaping mouth. Then with a _humph_ of long-suffering satisfaction, Megatron stood back to look over his handiwork.

"Much better. Now, was that so hard?"

Offline, the Prime looked more like one of the newlings than like a seasoned wartime general. "Slag-faced twerp!" muttered the big Decepticon, with the reluctant affection that always crept into his voice whenever he forgot to keep it hidden. "I ought to-"

But instead of carrying out whatever half-formed threat had almost tumbled from his vocals, Megatron just smiled and shook his head. He thumped Prime's chest, and then strode out of the door, glancing up and down the corridor to make sure no one saw him leave.

**A/N:** Second half of this mirrored pair coming soon! *evil glee*


	9. Resting Comfortably, Part 2

**A/N:** Glee! It's on now. Oh, it's SO on.

**Resting Comfortably, Part 2**

Prime slid into Megatron's dark quarters with a grin of undisguised anticipation. He had waited for the perfect moment, the ultimate conjunction of place, time, and circumstances. Too soon, and Megatron would have expected something like this. Too late, and he would just have been confused. And if Prime wrought his mischief during one of the still-too-frequent crises that the Co-Commanders faced... Well, he was Prime. He drew the line at irresponsibility.

But now everything was perfect. All was quiet. Megatron lay unsuspecting on his bunk... Lay in perfect, proper placement on his bunk.

Optimus stared down at him, and pondered all his options. The big gray mech's fingers were laced across his chest, his elbows locked against his sides, his legs ramrod-straight and aligned; his toes pointing up to a spot on the ceiling. His face was set in a neutral expression: a studied study of 'the Decepticon Commander at rest.' He showed no emotion, but looked at the same time ready to show plenty if the situation called for it.

Inspired, Prime indulged in an evil laugh (something he had never had adequate chances to employ), and set to his nefarious work.

First he loosened Megatron's fingers, and laid his long arms at his sides. Then with a heave, he rolled the big mech over on his side. With some effort, he hefted his erstwhile arch-enemy's shoulders, moving them to one edge of the bunk; then repositioned the legs as well. The bunk was narrow, and Prime needed more room to complete his introductory maneuver. Prime straightened, popped a backstrut into place, and heaved again. This time, Megatron wound up on his stomach, with his right arm pinned beneath him. Prime let out a low chuckle. So far, so good. So satisfying.

He stopped and planned his next move. This was tricky – if he accidentally pinched a duct, both Hook and Ratchet would come after him... probably waving some choice implements of their trade.

He checked the joints – all clear so far – and got down to business.

He bent Megatron's leg until he could just tuck the knee up under the Decepticon's red abdomen. Then he repeated his efforts on the other side. Now the first thing to greet an entrant to the warlord's private sanctum would be a view of the warlord's raised afterparts. Optimus cackled in an undertone, greatly pleased with this result.

Prime jerked, jimmied, and jostled the pinned right arm, till he finally tugged it free. Then he laid it straight, palm upwards, alongside the big Decepticon. The black fingers on its hand curled gently upwards as they rested on the bunk, beside his rear.

Now for the final touch.

Prime turned Megatron's head on its side, drew up the corresponding arm, pried open his heavy jaw, and stuffed the fearsome fighter's big black thumb between his teeth.

Then, yes, he chortled. Who wouldn't? Megatron lay on his tummy, with his bottom in the air and his thumb lodged firmly in his mouth. This was enough, he thought. This would do well.

He left the room, locking the door behind him with a Command-only passcode – there was a difference between teasing and cruelty, after all – and walked away, whistling.

To greet the gray mech on reboot, he sent a read-only message to the Decepticon Commander's memo-net: _Score 1 for the slag-faced twerp, Brother. But don't worry – I did not sell tickets. Bring it on, old man. Prime out._


End file.
